


The Seventh Glass

by Glishara



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glishara/pseuds/Glishara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duv and Miles are both having romantic issues, and drown their sorrows together.  Set mid-Memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Glass

“The problem,” Duv says (slurs) after the second hour and the seventh glass, “is that she was so _possible_. Smart. Good – good social… thing. Good wife. She’ll make a good wife, is the thing. Damned Barrayaran bastard.”

Miles’s head is lolling back by now, loose and wobbly on his neck, and he is contemplating the ceiling. “And squishy,” he adds. “Nice and squishy.”

“Squishy?” Duv squints over at him.

Miles tries to illustrate with his hands, sketching out the lines of squishiness, and spills his wine. It’s not the first time tonight. He took off his tunic an hour ago, so it just stains his shirt. “You know. Soft. You just… wanna fall into her. Not like Quinn.” This brings on a brief silent brood; his eyebrows draw together in a frown of distant reflection.

“Hah. Taking your life into your hands, there,” Duv says. “Sleeping with th’Empress’d be safer than that one.”

“Naw,” Miles demurs, waving the idea and the darkness away. His glass is empty, though he can’t remember why. He lurches toward the bottle. “Elli’s just… Elli. Taura, now. Taura…” He splashes wine into his glass clumsily, but manages not to spill any; Grandda would be proud. “Not like Empress is the point, anyway. Gregor’s, not mine. You know? No different for me. Not like you would have shared, either.”

“Eh,” Duv says, waving that away with a surprisingly eloquent motion of one long-fingered hand. It’s almost hypnotic, and Miles stares with dull fascination as the fingers slide through the air. “Komarr’s different.”

Miles blinks away the reverie. “Different?” he says, groping for the meaning. “Not that different. ‘Sall women and men and… women.” There was supposed to be something profound in that, but he can’t find it anymore. He finds the wine instead. It’s the good wine, probably wasted on their current state.

“Not here,” Duv argues. “Here it’s… social things. Wife and man and family and… need a wife. A good wife. Squishy’s just…” He flicks the idea away. “She’d have been… hers. Not his. Not mine. Not yours.”

Miles shakes his head. There’s something wrong with that logic, but he can’t find it right now. “Still wouldn’t have shared,” he points out, trying to find his way back to the conversation he remembers.

“Why not?” Duv insists. “We could all do it together. Big party.”

“Together?” Something inside Miles’s head flops over, and the room is suddenly dizzyingly uncertain. He tries to clear it with anotherr shake, but it doesn’t help.

“Sure,” Duv says. He leans over and grabs the bottle, but doesn’t pour, just clinging to its neck. “You could kiss her thighs, and I’d run my fingers through her hair and nibble her earlobe.”

Miles is rapt, now, the scene unfolding in his head. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And I’d slide my hands up over her stomach.”

“And I’d be sitting behind her,” Duv says. “She’d be between my thighs.”

“And I’d be between hers.” Miles, in the grips of this new vision, thumps out of his chair, landing on his knees before Duv.

“And I could reach around her,” Duv says, gesturing with the bottle, “and put my hand on her breast.”

“And flick your thumb,” Miles agrees, “and catch her nipples.”

“They’d be hard,” Duv says.

“And I’d slide my hand over the other.”

Miles is hard, now, too. He doesn’t know when it started, but he is looking up at Duv, and Duv’s dark eyes aren’t wavering from his. “You’d slide up her,” Duv says, voice low.

“My hand would glide up over her shoulder.”

“To the back of her neck.”

“I’d brush your stomach.”

“I’d catch my breath.”

The narrative hiccups to a halt here, as the two men stare at each other. Miles breaks it, letting out a shaky laugh. “She’d never let us, anyway,” he says. He reached for the bottle in Duv’s hand.

Duv catches his wrist with his free hand. There’s a moment, and then he says, his voice low, “Miles.”

Miles can’t think what to say, so he just stares back, still on his knees, Duv’s fingers burning against his wrist. Duv doesn’t say anything else. Finally, Miles tries an uncertain, “Yes?”

Duv kisses him. That wasn’t precisely what Miles meant by his yes, but it seems like poor form to argue now: Duv has dropped the bottle of expensive wine, and has his hand cupped around the back of Miles’s neck now, and Miles feels the throbbing ache of need in his groin.

Duv is leaned absurdly far over to reach him, Miles reflects, and grabs a fistful of shirt, wrenching Duv off his chair to the floor with him. Their lips break contact as Duv falls, but Miles feels the ghost of the kiss tingling there as they stare at each other. “Miles,” Duv says again.

This time, when Miles says, “Yes,” he knows exactly what he means. Duv kisses his throat this time, and Miles loses his balance, the room spinning as he topples half-sideways. Duv follows, one hand fumbling with his stunner holster as he gets a knee between Miles’s legs, pressing hard against Miles’s throbbing cock. He kisses Miles on the throat, the neck, the jaw, and then finds his mouth again.

Miles kisses back, hard, his hand fisting again in Duv’s shirt. He grinds up against Duv’s thigh, tries to get a hand into the waistband of Duv’s trousers, but can’t get the angle to work. Instead, he rubs the heel of his hand along the length of Duv’s cock, easy to find by its outline. The pressure of Duv’s lips on his eases for a moment as he catches his breath.

And then Duv has given up on the stunner holster and is fumbling with his belt, and Miles is working on his own. Duv finishes first, and deals with Miles’s as well: he is clearly less affected by the wine. Miles wriggles, trying to get his trousers off, but Duv can’t wait. His erect cock is sliding along Miles’s thigh before Miles has his trousers past his knees, and his mouth is on Miles’s ear: he is muttering something Miles can’t quite make out.

Miles can’t reach Duv to kiss from this angle, but he can feel the pressure of Duv’s cock on his leg, and his own is pressing up against Duv’s stomach. He groans slightly and tries to thrust, and then Duv’s cock is pushing between his thighs, and Duv is barely breathing, sucking on his ear and driving, leaving a line of heat between Miles’s legs.

They are wet with sweat, bodies sliding against each other, and Miles groans back. “Oh, god, Duv.”

And then Duv is sliding a hand between them, curling fingers around Miles’s cock, and Miles bucks against him. His cry is stopped by Duv’s mouth, landing on his with bruising force, and the two men grind against each other, rhythm increaing. Miles feels the moment where control of the act slips beyond him, and he slams up against Duv, the rippling release of orgasm taking him.

Duv climaxes only a beat behind him, abandoning the kiss only in the final second of orgasm, when his eyes close and he clenches his hand around Miles’s softening cock. His breathing stops entirely for that frozen minute, and then the tension slowly seeps out of his body.

For Miles’s part, he doesn’t think he could be tense if he tried. His muscles are all limp, soft with alcohol and the aftermath of his release. He lets out a shaky breath, and Duv seems to remember that he is still on top of Miles. Then separate without speaking.

After a moment, Miles uses his tunic to mop up a little, then pulls up his trousers. Duv is watching him.

Miles reaches for the wine bottle, trickling red into the antique carpet, and takes a swig from the little liquid remaining. He holds it out to Duv in invitation. Duv takes it. Duv drinks.

As the silence threatens to grow oppressive, Miles searches for something to say. All that he can think of is, “Damn, Duv. You’ve got to invite me to more of your parties.”

Duv’s teeth flash in a grin, and Miles knows, with a powerful wash of relief, that things are going to be all right. “I’m planning one for tomorrow,” he says. “Small. Exclusive.”

“Count me in.”


End file.
